When You Are Gone

Chapter 16

I was in the Corolla. Driving for the first time out of town, alone. Listening to the static news on the radio, feeling the way grandpa did every night he left home those days. The A2 canvas dominated the backseat. What had driven me to pick that painting? The one of Francie. The one to present to a place that could potentially change my life? I still don't know.

I stopped at the gas station. It was still early in the morning. The weather was mildly cold. I bought colas and a packet of chips over the counter in the shop. The cashier was polite, sincerely wishing me a nice day – only if she knew. I sat at the passenger side in the Corolla. Quietly thinking about Francie. Making quiet prayers in my heart. Bargaining with God. Why did we always do this when faced with tough situations? Why did it hurt so much to be in love?

It wasn't long until I was back on the road. The drive to the city felt like eternity. Tall buildings, busy streets, traffic congestion. I was in the city. The same city Francie was living now. The same city she was having her operation while I was stuck, waiting impatiently in the traffic jam.

The gallery was on the second floor in one of the multistory buildings in the heart of the town as Rebecca had explained. I held the painting under my arm. Anticipating and dreading at the same time.

"Name?" a bespectacled young male who sat at the reception asked.

"Roman Bates."

He started scrolling through the monitor with the mouse in his hand.

"Does he know about your visit?" he asked.

I nodded I affirmation.

"You can have a seat," he pointed towards a wooden bench inside the gallery.

The gallery was a large, spacious room with high ceiling. The walls were a brilliant white, even and spotless. They were furnished with a variety of modern paintings with some of the big names in the industry signed on them and some ancient ones with rusted frames and their histories inscribed on small preserved scrolls. I walked about, gazing from one painting to another. Suddenly, mine felt insubstantial, like a fish among sharks. Important looking business people dressed in suits and ties walked in and out. Some of them even scratching deals right before me, shaking hands with representatives and salespeople.

There was a separate section in the gallery for crafts. There was a range of animals; giraffes, warthogs, leopards carved from wood and some assembled from scrapes of recycled metal.

"Excuse me." A man in a blue striped shirt and khaki pants approached me. He wore a red beret on his head and leather sandals on his feet. "That painting," he remarked pointing at the canvas which I still had clinging under my arm. "Is that yours?"

"Yes," I replied.

"Could I have a look at it?" he asked. I held it up in front of him. He seemed awestruck, glaring at my painting as if in deep thought.

"I'm sorry but this girl on here looks oddly familiar," he said after a while. "My name is Josef Quincy." He reached out his arm. I placed the painting down to shake his hand.

His name. I thought quietly to myself. I've heard it before.

"She looks quite like my niece," Mr. Quincy said reaching into his back pocket. He pulled out his wallet and he flashed a small passport sized photograph before me. Francie! – She was much younger in the photograph. Did he know Francie? Francie. My mind wondered again. Her mother, I finally realized. She's the one who mentioned the name, Josef Quincy – Francie's uncle, the artist who did that gigantic painting of her grandfather in their hallway.

"But it can't be her," the man quickly said dismissing the thought.

"Could I know the name of your niece?" I asked him.